Harry Potter and the Life After Death
by CharlotteCrawford
Summary: Harry Potter has the weight of the wizarding world on his shoulders; with a society to rebuild and justice to fight for, Harry's battle seems only half won. To succeed, he must rely on help from his friends... and others.


Disclaimer - I owe all of the fun I have had writing this story to the brilliant imagination of J. K. Rowling - I own nothing!

A/N - This fanfic is a story to help fill the nineteen years between the last chapter of Deathly Hallows and the epilogue. Characters which did not feature at the end have been woven in to help me create a plot! I have also used information given by JKR in various interviews to keep as closely to canon as I can. There are vast elements of the story which I have completely made up, but I have tried to make them compatible with the little that we do know about the future of these characters.

**Harry Potter and the Life After Death**

Chapter 1

The Aftermath

The muffled chimes of an old grandfather clock were almost completely lost in the cacophony of bangs, clangs and scrapes issuing from the kitchen of Number 10, Grimmauld Place.

"Get a serving spoon for the stew, would you, Ron? Harry, all I'm saying is that it seems a shame not to try. She saved your life, after all." Hermione rolled her eyes as Ron clattered around in the kitchen. "In the top drawer, Ron, as always."

Ron's muttered imitation of Hermione drifted across to the dining table, as Harry answered.

"I _know_, Hermione. That's why I offered to go in the first place, but she doesn't want me to help her."

Hermione frowned. "Why not, though? It doesn't make sense! It isn't as though she'll be with her family in Azkaban; they'd never allow that–"

"Damn straight! _Accio spoon!_"

"Ron, would you please hurry up?"

"I'm looking! _Accio bloody spoon!_"

"Surely Draco wants her to be let off. He was her whole motive for protecting Harry, so why is she abandoning him now? His court date isn't long after hers, and he's going to need all the support he can-"

The clattering of cutlery drowned out all noise for a moment as Ron furiously upended the top drawer onto the kitchen surface, and began rummaging through the cutlery. "There are about 200 knives, Hermione, but there is _not one single poxy little–_"

"Oh, _wait_." Harry jumped up, and joined Ron in the kitchen. "That thing's been playing up since Kreacher left. I think it thinks we've lopped his head off, or something." Harry rapped the top of the heavy wooden chest. "Two weeks, he'll be back. Less than. So would you give us the serving spoon, please?"

The spoon was spat from the back of the drawers, and Harry, his seeker skills still in tact, caught it deftly. "I have an idea about Mrs Malfoy, actually."

Ron's renewed stream of muttering paused, as he levitated the drawer back on to its runners. "You mean you don't think she's just gone barmy?"

"No, I – I reckon she's trying to, you know, offer a trade-in, of sorts. She wants to get me on side, I think."

Ron scoffed, as he heaped Hermione's lamb stew into his bowl. "Harry, are you serious? What good does she think it'll do her, if she's refusing your help in court? She really is mental, if that's what she's doing."

Hermione slapped her hand to her forehead, a look of dawning comprehension on her face. "Of course!"

"Wait, you agree with me?"

"Not with you, Ronald. It _is_ for Draco, isn't it? That's why she's doing it. She wants you to help him instead."

Harry shrugged. "It's a guess, but yeah, I'd say so." Harry toyed with the boiled onions in front of him.

"As if! That sneaky little ferret's going to get what's coming to him and about time too. 'Tskahbah, innit?"

As Hermione berated Ron for speaking with his mouth full (Ron grinned goofily at her, and earned a half-smile as she rolled her eyes), Harry pondered his own feelings on the matter. Did Malfoy deserve a second chance? Well, it would hardly be the second. And after all, Ron was right: he was a sneaky little ferret.

His mind was cast back to the night on the Astronomy Tower. He was _sure_ Malfoy had lowered his wand. And despite Lucius Malfoy being who he was, Harry didn't really believe that his son was a threat. He was an arrogant, selfish git, without a doubt, but a danger to society? Had he seen Malfoy throw a single curse in the final battle? And as the decision formed in his mind (one that would surely appal Ron when he found out), Harry pictured the twinkling blue eyes of his former headmaster, and knew what he would have to do.

"Harry, hurry up and finish your dinner, I want dessert."

"Ron, you've only just finished your main course!"

"Yeah, but there's none left, and I'm still hungry – what's for afters?"

"Well, I made an apple pie–"

"Excellent! Where is it?"

Hermione raised her eyebrows at Harry, who hid a grin, and pointed Ron back into the kitchen, instructing him to bring a knife back in with him.

"Now _that_ I can manage," said Ron cheerfully, bounding towards the chest of drawers, and prising them open with glee. "Apple pie, apple pie, oh, how I love– oh, sod off!"

Harry looked up in time to see Ron kick the drawers hard.

"Right, listen here! That creepy elf is not dead; if you don't give me a knife right now, it will be _your_ top-end framed on the staircase!"

A sharp knife whistled past Ron's ear, and stuck like a dart into the tall cupboard behind him. Hermione shrieked and ran to Ron (who looked rather pleased with the attention). Harry, in gales of laughter, could not help but think about how lucky he was to be at home, with his family.

***

"That's for Dumbledore, Malfoy!"

Seeing that the Flourish & Blotts cleaner ('Elvendork', according to his badge) standing nearby was studiously ignoring him and the small puddle of spit at his feet, Draco weighed up his options.

His instinct was to hex the ignorant brat scowling up at him, but he doubted that attacking a minor would impress his lawyer. Or the Wizengamot. Or Elvendork, who would have to clear up the mess. Not that that caused him too many uncomfortable feelings. He toyed with pointing out that it wasn't he who killed the old man anyway, but he didn't suppose that reasoned debate would be particularly effective either (and with a familiar spasm in his stomach area, he wondered if that was ultimately true).

Option number three seeming the wisest he swept past the boy, eyeballing him and the nervous-looking Elvendork on his way out. Out in Diagon Alley, Draco saw shoppers pause in their business to gawp and whisper to one another – was that _Draco Malfoy_? From their icy stares, he gathered that they thought that it took some audacity for him to show his face in public. He caught the eye of a particularly elderly witch quite by accident.

Draco was taken aback by the unbridled ferocity in her voice when she said: "You show nerve, Malfoy. I wouldn't have expected it in a Slytherin. You're as vile as your father – have you no shame? I hope you can see the blood on your hands, boy! Potter might be feeling magnanimous, but that won't bring back our Fred, will it?"

She was standing right in front of him now, blocking his way. "Or any of the others, eh, boy? I'm sure you've seen plenty. All those men, women, children, dead at the word of your _master_. Not that you care, inhuman creature! Show us your mark, Death Eater!" Her screeches had drawn the attention of everyone on the street, which had fallen eerily silent.

"Come on, Muriel; let's get back to the Burrow. Mum and Fleur'll have lunch ready for everyone."

_A Weasley_. The old crone's words found their meaning. _Our Fred_. The heavily scarred young man in front of him looked gaunt and haggard. Draco tried to imagine whether he could look less frightening if he looked less miserable, but it was all he could do not to recoil. The Weasley, whom Draco assumed must be the eldest brother (he had heard Greyback's triumph over this one) barely spared a glance at Draco before steering his relative away, who was still declaiming her disgust.

Feeling drained, Draco finally reached the Leaky Cauldron, hardly noticing the interested onlookers following his progress. Finding a table hidden away in the corner, he collapsed into a deep, squadgy armchair. He had long-since decided not to dwell on the almost-constant acidy burn in his stomach. To distract himself, he glanced at the Daily Prophet on the table. Wonderboy Potter was looking harassed and important, trying to avoid the cameras flashing from all directions. The headline jumped from the page, in large font even for the prophet.

Potter to show mercy to old classmates?

Draco scanned the article with mild surprise. So Potter wanted to 'impose a minimum age on convicted Death Eaters', did he? 'Leaked documents' had been shown to the press, who were hailing Potter a 'strong, diplomatic leader in the war against war'. Draco wouldn't be holding his breath. The public would lap this up, and never notice when all said classmates rotted in Azkaban anyway. It's the public image that matters.

So that was how Potter was 'feeling magnanimous'. He had presumed that the old lady had just been referencing his _extraordinary_ fairness in insisting that all captured faced trial. How generous. Sunk in his bitterness, Draco finally allowed himself to reflect on the court proceedings he had attended last week. Not his own; they would come later.

He had not been able to speak to them after their plea; he wasn't sure that he'd have wanted to even if he could have. His father had looked wretched in defeat, and his mother completely passive. A tidal wave of resentment hit Draco as he thought of her empty eyes making no appeal to Shacklebolt. She had refused a defence witness – Draco almost hit the ground when he found out that there was one. She refused freedom! Even if it was _Potter_ offering it, of all people. With the evidence laid against them, and no attempt at pleading innocence, even Draco couldn't see how either of them could be cleared when they sat full trial before the Wizengamot in a fortnight's time.

But was he, Draco, not worth the effort? Was he now to bear the burden of supporting his parents, on top of all the other problems they'd left him with? Would they give him tips from their cells on how to rebuild their ransacked home, how to retrieve frozen assets to cover legal fees, how to stay out of jail himself? In the past, they had always been so successful. Why fall at the last hurdle?

Draco sunk his head into his arms, resting on the waxed oak table. It was there his friends found him, almost an hour later.

"Nap time, Malfoy?" Blaise Zabini's eyes swept the room nonchalantly as he planted himself on a hardback chair beside Draco. "And Greengrass isn't even in the room."

"Sod off, Zabini." Draco, having looked up to acknowledge Blaise, Marcus Flint and Pansy Parkinson with vague nods, slumped his head onto his hand, massaging his right temple. "Where is she, anyway?"

"Missing her company?" Blaise smirked at Draco's scowl. "Easy there, Malfoy. Mercifully, she is visiting family in Northamptonshire." He shuddered lightly. "Merlin save those relatives."

"What about the others? This isn't much of a reunion, Zabini. You do realise Flint wasn't in our year?"

"Nice to see you, too, Malfoy," Flint grunted.

"This isn't _supposed_ to be a reunion. I invited you here for drinks, and bumped into these fine people on my way in. Should I have invited Goyle and Bulstrode too?"

"They wouldn't have come, if they'd known I'd be here."

"You look glum, Malfoy. Don't be. Theodore is the only other Slytherin I can abide, excluding present company, of course."

"Greengrass is OK."

"She's the most boring, vapid little creature on the face of the Earth. But perhaps that's your type, Draco," Pansy said snarkily. Draco wondered if she was still sour about him dumping her on her birthday two years ago. Probably.

"I'm surprised you're still walking free, Malfoy," said Flint. "I thought you'd be banged up in no time. Ministry still fumbling arrests, eh?" He toasted the air, taking a hefty gulp of his firewhisky.

"It's just a matter of time," said Blaise archly. "When Potter grows a backbone, he'll send out his minions."

"I'm so glad you came, Zabini."

"You know it's true. Flashing around your-"

"Shut it, Zabini!" Draco snapped. "I didn't _flash it around_, Potter just rudely sneaked in _to my own home _and happened to-"

"Yeah, yeah." Blaise kicked a foot onto the table, ignoring the stern gaze of the young blonde witch behind the bar. "You know, Montague's just got off. His trial was yesterday; Arnie Gumboil let him go, of course."

"Just got it off Rosie Wilkes," said Flint. "She's in the Ministry, and apparently old Mr Montague reminded Gumboil of some favours he'd been done." He scratched his chin, thoughtfully. "Got to say, I was a bit surprised. Thought he might have a bit of trouble from Dumbledore's lot."

_Dumbledore__'s lot._ They still called them that.

"They never had much on Joseph, anyway."

"_Joseph_, Parkinson? You've got a vested interest in this one, have you?"

Draco cut off Pansy's snarl and Flint's snort of laughter impatiently. "But they've definitely let him go? He was marked, too, I thought that would be enough…"

"Is this optimism at last, Malfoy?" Blaise looked at Draco appraisingly. "You didn't really think that money would count for nothing, did you? Now more than ever, they need it. They have a glorious new world to rebuild."

"Potter's not going to stand for officials taking bribes-"

"You overestimate Potter's influence, Malfoy. He's the _face_ of the Ministry, not the brains. The powers that be are a little less… naïve. They've got nothing much on Montague, and his father's been a benefactor of the Ministry's for years. Shacklebolt can see that it isn't black and white, and he can't afford to lose major financial backers. They're going for the big guns – Montague's barely out of school, and more than mildly incompetent as a wizard anyway."

Pansy muttered darkly under her breath. Draco slumped again. _Big guns._ It didn't sound like his parents' hopes were too high.

"On a lighter note," said Blaise. "I hear Greengrass is engaged to Higgs. Maybe that's the family she's sedating today."

Flint sniggered. "About time he got a girl. I heard he was a beater for the other team, if you get my-"

"We get your meaning, Flint," said Pansy snippily. "You're wrong, anyway, Millicent went out with him in fifth year-"

Flint roared with laughter.

"Don't you have a meeting to go to, Flint?" asked Blaise suddenly.

Flint swore. "I'm bloody late, and all. Glad I bumped into you, Zabini, I needed a drink. Bulstrode!" he hooted. "I'd forgotten that!" He was still guffawing as he tipped his hat to the barmaid, disappearing into Diagon Alley.

"A meeting?" asked Malfoy. "On a Sunday?"

"You know Marcus," replied Pansy. "There's never a day he won't do business."

"Yeah, you'd know that-"

"One more word, Zabini, and that glass will be stuck so far up your-"

"That'd be threatening, Parkinson, if I hadn't seen your feeble-"

"Feeble _what_, Zabini? Would you like a demonstration? Although, frankly, I have better things to do with my time. Joseph's being released this afternoon-"

"Convenient," muttered Zabini, loud enough for Pansy to hear as she pushed her chair back to leave.

"Oh, shut up!" Malfoy said crabbily. "What did you want, anyway? It was you who arranged this little meeting, Zabini, and pleasant as it's been, I was having a perfectly good-"

"Mope?" suggested Pansy, pulling her jacket on.

"Is nobody allowed to finish a sentence anymore?"

"Of course they are. Here's one: goodbye." Pansy marched out of the pub, giving Blaise a dirty look as she went.

"Thank Merlin, I thought she'd never leave – I happened across her, too, on my way in. That witch is such an airhead, she didn't take 'Well, goodbye now,' as a cue to leave. Listen, Draco," Blaise began. "I couldn't get down to business with Flint or Parkinson here – he'd be blackmailing you by Tuesday, and she'd have told the entire Wizarding World by the day after – but I have news regarding your parents' trial. Stop looking all glum for a minute and listen," he said sharply, noting Draco's sunken expression. "Their trial has been pushed back."

"What!"

"_Listen._ Your mother, for what I'm sure is an extremely intelligent reason-"

Draco glared.

"-has refused Potter's offer of standing as a witness. However, a warrant has been produced for your arrest-"

"_What!_"

"Malfoy, if you keep interrupting, this story will be longer and duller than it need be. So shut up. As I said, Potter has given the go-ahead for you to be brought in-"

"But you said, earlier-"

"If you interrupt me one more time I am going to hand you in."

Blaise's eyes bored into Draco's, who decided that just in case Zabini _did_ have something important to say, he'd shut up. Blaise wasn't known for making empty threats.

"Wise choice. Now, I happen to know that Potter was not planning on bringing you in until the media circus had died down a bit. He seems to think that you deserve a second chance – Dumbledore's spirit lives on, perhaps." He smirked. "But plans change. Potter _now_ wants you to testify as soon as possible. He has extended the same offer of defence to you."

"He-"

Malfoy was silenced by the swiftest of looks.

"He wants you to stand trial before your parents do. He thinks it might make them more amenable to outside help." Blaise watched Draco carefully. Assuming in this new silence he was allowed to speak, Draco did.

"Why does he think that?"

"Don't be thick, Malfoy. Surely you know that's why your mother has been so keen to go down without a fight? She thinks it'll satiate the need for imprisonment, give you an easier trial. She'll swear you were never part of it, that you were forced to take the Mark. To give credit where it's due, she has certainly stood by her convictions, if you'll pardon the pun."

Draco was struggling to make sense of all this. "But why didn't she just tell them that and plead innocence too?"

"Because, Draco, she is not as ignorant as you seem to be." Blaise leaned forward. "The Wizarding World needs to see people go to prison. Every guilty verdict calms the nerves of middle-aged mothers countrywide. Every cell door slamming shut eases the desire for vengeance. Now, don't get me wrong, I think it was an absurd plan. As if your name wouldn't condemn you instantly anyway," Blaise shook his head dismissively. "Potter has another idea. He believes that allowing you to go free will give the Ministry more leeway to negotiate with convicts. You see, his _benevolent_ morals dictate that he must save the good, the bad, and yes, even the ugly."

There was a pause, as Draco tried and failed to process what Blaise wanted him to gain from this information. "So… should I run?"

Blaise's arms dropped to his sides and he rolled his eyes. "I give up. You're an imbecile."

"I don't understand."

"Clearly."

"Zabini!"

"Obviously you shouldn't run, moron. I'm telling you that Potter wants to defend your case, and has pushed back your parents' trial until your mother can be sure that you've been granted freedom; then, perhaps, she will accept Potter's amnesty too."

"Why would Potter do that for me?"

"How should I know? Perhaps it is the fabled Gryffindor nobility we are force-fed so much about."

Something wasn't sitting quite right with Draco. "You're hiding something from me. How do you know all this? Your mother hasn't just married Shacklebolt, has she?"

"Alas, no," said Blaise dryly. "Her latest is still alive and cursing."

"Then how do you know what Potter's trying to do here? And why did you want to meet here, anyway, and not at the Cackling Stump?"

"Well, to answer the latter question first…Potter thought you'd be easier to take down on his own turf, as it were."

With barely a whisper, Draco fell unconscious as a stunning spell from a neighbouring table hit him square in the back.

"And to answer the former," continued Blaise, "he's my boss."

***

A/N - I would be very grateful to hear any feedback! I know that I am asking for a leap of faith in Zabini's character, but I hope I can reconcile him with his canon character later, with the aid of a lot of backstory! (This is not a story about Blaise Zabini, but he will feature in recollections of more prominent characters!)


End file.
